Planting and Plucking

Ecclesiastes 3:2b "... a time to plant and a time to pluck up what is planted."

Some people are born with green thumbs. Interestingly enough, the history of 'green thumb' presumably dates back to King Edward I of England. According to the Old Farmer's Almanac, King Edward I loved peas. He enjoyed fresh green peas so much that he had half a dozen serfs working to keep him supplied, a prize going to the one with the greenest thumb, presumably from hours of shelling.

I have shelled many a pea pod in my day. When the sun would shine mid-summer, my siblings and I would be dressed in play clothes and moved out the door to the half acre garden where all of my parent's plants lived and breathed. These memories seem to have a crusty, golden feeling to them, like an old mirror that has some rust around the edges but the reflection seems almost accurate. Walking toward the garden, late morning, the grasshoppers would have already started their click-clacking, the cabbage moths would be floating between dandelion patches and the mosquitoes would still be shaking off the morning dew.

We kids would be equipped with five quart empty ice-cream buckets or else five gallon water pails to collect the produce of the garden. As we approached the growing vegetables, it would be amazing to think that just 10 weeks before, these enormous plants had sprouted from seeds. Most parents think the same things about their kids when they get older, I think. I've heard so many adults say, "They just grew up so fast." It's easy for grandparents to say that; they aren't in the midst of diaper changing, discipline and sleepless nights when seven-year-olds are coughing every four and a half minutes. Someday in the not too distant future I will probably say the same thing about my girls and then I will have realized, I'm closer to grandparent's age than I am to a new father.

Off topic, sorry.

Planting wasn't so hard. Dad would bring out the old tiller, its rotating claws looking like a machine from a science fiction movie. The motor on that thing would frighten the dickens out of our gun shy dog while the cat, Ozzie, would simply yawn at the goings on. When the tiller started up, it was like a parade; dad driving (or being pulled along) followed by skipping young ones stopping to pick up a rock to attempt mothacide (I never did hit one of the cabbage moths but it was still fun). Tillers aren't fast but they are powerful and as dad finally hit the garden we watched the claws dig up the black dirt bludgeoning the clumps into small clods. We would follow behind picking up juicy worms to fish with. It was a good summer life.

The '80's were a time of small jean shorts and tank tops. Sunscreen was rarely used; nobody cared about sunburn. We spent hours in that garden. My dad and mom would put some seeds in each of our hands and tell us how far to space them. After we got bored, I watched my brother look around near the end of his row and dump most of the seeds in one tiny clump. Impatience is a necessary part of childhood.

For those ten weeks we watched the plants grow. What our hands had put in the ground, our eyes watched come out of the ground. At first they were just plain, small sprigs of green, but soon the leaves began to open and in the instance of peas, the tendrils of vines stretched for the sky seeking to grasp anything which to climb.

Just like kids. It seems like from the minute they are born they are looking for things to climb, things to pull them up whether chairs, hands, steps, light fixtures, garage doors or radio antennae on a large combine. Kids long to be higher, where the adults are, assuming life is much better at a higher altitude. It is most beautiful; they never stop reaching for the next step. Like peas, they reach one rung and keep going for the next all the while growing taller and taller.

During most of the summer, that's what peas do: they climb. Then, when the heat of summer beats down, the peas start to blossom. The fragrant blooms fill up the garden. It seems the whole world is filled with the beauty of the pea plant. Walking down the rows of peas, if you could step close, you could watch the fingers of vines wrap around the chicken wire fence as if holding on for dear life. They don't want to be on the ground - the air is much better up there.

Then, when the blossoms have come and gone, the pods form - first flattened, but then seemingly filled with moisture, they burst outward seeming to stretch the seems of the pod itself. They look like they'll pop like a balloon if you just touch them, but the pod itself is hard. It is weathered and strong as a safe. It can withstand quite a bit of pressure.

And there we were, we kids, in mid-summer pails in hand walking out to the pea plants to pluck from them the pods only to bring them back to the house to shuck them. It was not hard work, but to a child, anything repetitive is dull. We would hurry down the rows picking as fast as we could, missing many, but probably eating many more raw, right from the vine. There aren't many vegetables as delicious as the fresh sweet pea. They are quite a bit like candy, crunching between your teeth, squishing. Even the juice of the pea pod can be chewed and swallowed although swallowing the whole pod is not as enjoyable.

Sooner or later we would return to the kitchen hauling pounds of pea pods. We would spend the afternoon pulling back the tip which would pull the pea string (that's what I called it) to make opening the pea pod that much easier. Then, you would pop one end of the pod and run your thumb down the middle freeing each pea from its nest. By doing this, one's thumb would turn a nice, pea green. Thus, a green thumb.

We spent many a summer with brown skin, dirty-black clothes, and green thumbs. There is something inherently good about working the soil - planting and plucking. The cycle of life replicated every year gives life a complete kind of meaning and feeling. Planting means spring; plucking means summer, plucking up means fall when we would go back into the garden to free the chicken wire from the dried vines of the peas. But that is life; it is a circle.

And it is beautiful.

Mark 4 - if you get a chance, read how Jesus describes planting. Read carefully and find a little extra meaning behind the seed.

Turn, Turn, Turn

Soon I will be 37 years old. For some, that seems like a lifetime ago. There are two gentlemen at church that, when they greet me, call me 'young fella'. For others, like those in my confirmation class, they see me as ancient. Thirty-seven years old seems to put me at the age of Stonehenge. When I try and interact with them using some of their own lingo using words such as 'like' a lot, or throwing in a couple of 'Whassups', I can actually hear there eyes rolling. I might be a little past it, but as Steve Martin says (perhaps denying reality) "I still got it!"

So, I am almost thirty seven. That's how we say it in English. I am my age. My years determine who I am. If I was fifty seven - I should act like a fifty-seven-year-old. If I was thirteen I should act like an early teenager. But in most languages, the phrase for stating age is not 'I am..." but "I have thirty-six years." It seems like a slight difference, but in reality, the attitude difference is huge. If I say "I have thirty-six years" that means I am not defined by the digits, but defined by the ownership of the memories of thirty-six years.

A better way to look at it is, each of the years that I have might have a different theme because of location or outlook on life. For instance, my early twenties were defined by my college experience; my mid-twenties by traveling, my late twenties by early fatherhood. So, in a metaphorical way, each moment of my life is a rock - some are diamonds, some are coal, some are granite - whatever. But, I have them - they are mine and belong to no one else. As I look back at the moments of my life, I can sort the memories by category of rocks - diamonds, the beautiful moments of growing up, the fun moments of college, married life and children. These are the rarest and most beautiful like the gems.

The granite is the most abundant. I don't know the make up of the earth's rocky crust but it seems like there is a lot of granite. Granite is hard and composed of many different minerals - so is the majority of life. Most days are composed of repetitive patterns of behavior of which we sometimes take no notice. But, have you ever studied granite closely? There are rainbows of colors that sometimes our eyes miss. The granite of our lives is what makes us who we are; it shapes who we will be. This rock is the strength of our person.

Lastly, the coal. Of course coal serves a purpose. The coal of our lives, the episodes that we'd like to forget, or burn for that fact, reminds us of who we don't want to be. I don't want to be impatient, mean, envious, boastful, arrogant and rude. I don't want to insist on my own way, be irritable and resentful. Basically, the anti-love from 1 Cor. 13. But the coal, when pressured by heat and weight turns into diamond (after a very long time). We learn from our mistakes and we move to be better.

So, we have these rocks in our lives. These are our years. We aren't the things that we have done - we own them; we have them.

When I probably had seven years of age, I think I remember hearing the song "Turn, Turn, Turn" by the Byrds. Every time I hear this song it brings back some really groovy memories of my childhood - music tends to do that, to bring you back to a time where everything seemed a little more diamond like. The Byrds didn't write the song, actually Pete Seger did, but the Byrds made it popular with their twangy guitars and lilting voices. If you get a chance, YouTube it and listen to it again with fresh ears. Pete Seger may have written the music, but someone much older wrote the words: Solomon, third king of Israel.

Ecclesiastes 3: For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:
a time to be born, and a time to die...

In the next few weeks I'd like to go through the list of supposed opposites and dig a little more into the seasons of life. I like how Solomon understood life itself - seasons. I've heard that phrase before that the segments of life are defined by seasons: spring, summer, autumn and winter. Most would think that the seasons are of equal length but I would like to think that they are not. In my opinion, spring is the first 30 years, summer the next 25, autumn the next 20 and winter - whatever happens after that. Each season in nature is characterized by certain events and so is life.

Spring, new birth, new growth, new learning - everything is new. Solomon writes, there is a time to be born and a time to die. When spring rolls around it seems like every living thing is singing "Turn, Turn, Turn". The winter is past, life has come. The world has a new year. It is in the springtime of life when the sun begins to warm the earth. As I write this, those of you who might be reading this in temperate climates, just imagine the re-awakening of the earth from under a thick blanket of snow, like a sleeping giant shaking off the sleep, stretching and yawning, taking a huge breath! In spring we hear the birds beginning their happy songs again, the worms screaming in horror that the birds are back. The fresh wind from the west promising not snow but longer hours of sunshine soon. People seem to walk with a new bounce in their step, more willing to say 'hello' less willing to say goodbye. In this season, there is a time to be born and a time to grow, but spring is also a time to die. In the first years of our life, we learn to die to the things that hold us back. No longer are we completely dependent on our parents for everything. It is a time of utter change, and that can be frightening, just like death.

So, I haven't done a specific Bible study on this blog yet, but perhaps we can do one together. If any of you would like to share some stories of the springtime of your lives, the newness of life, new birth, please e-mail or respond to this post. I won't publish without your consent, but I would love to hear your own stories - your own diamonds, granite (and coal, if you wish). In the next weeks, I think I'm going to try and work through Ecclesiastes 3 so please read through the first 15 verses and give me some thoughts and ideas.

Peace,

Reid

Scarred for Life

I see it almost everyday. Right outside my office window it flies. Rarely do I pay attention to it other than when it is flapping so hard it makes a whipping noise. It is the flag of the United States of America. Like the flags of every other country in the world, it has specific meaning. It is a symbol embedded with symbols. I won't write today about the feelings of patriotism that is, in some, inspired by the stars and stripes; that is not my intent. My intent is to write about something very visible that has a history - a history that I have not really thought about, not until it was blogday, at least.

Disregarding the Grand Union flag of the Continental army (which was never recognized as a flag for the the entirety of the union), there have been 26 different flags that the United States has used as the flying symbol of the country. If asked before my research, I could have picked out two: the 13 colonies flag (the one supposedly seamed by the esteemed Betsy Ross) and the current one consisting of 13 stripes and fifty stars - which symbolically stand for the 13 original colonies of the country and now the fifty states which make up the union. I've never really thought about it that hard but I guess every time a new state was added to the union they would have had to have a new flag. If you want to see a progression of flags from the inception of the country in 1776 until 1959 (our present flag) go to Wikipedia and look it up. Our current flag, like almost all symbols, has a tinge of folklore with how it was adopted as our country's flag.

When Alaska and Hawaii were being considered for statehood in the 1950s, more than 1,500 designs were spontaneously submitted to President Dwight D. Eisenhower. Although some of them were 49-star versions, the vast majority were 50-star proposals. At least three, and probably more of these designs were identical to the present design of the 50-star flag. At the time, credit was given by the executive department to the United States Army Institute of Heraldry for the design.

Of these proposals, one created by 17-year old Robert G. Heft in 1958 as a school project has received the most publicity. His mother was a seamstress, but refused to do any of the work for him. He originally received a B- for the project. After discussing the grade with his teacher, it was agreed (somewhat jokingly) that if the flag was accepted by Congress, the grade would be reconsidered. Heft's flag design was chosen and adopted by presidential proclamation after Alaska and before Hawaii was admitted into the union in 1959. He got an A.

In the basement of our house we have multiple flags. Because Christine and I have a large worldview, we try to collect flags from many of the countries that we spend a goodly amount of time in. The Canadian, Danish, German, Tanzanian, American and English flags hang on the west wall of our basement. The Jamaican flag is there too - my brother bought it for me when he and his wife returned from a second honeymoon. We haven't been to Jamaica, but its got green in it - so we put it next to the Tanzanian flag - green makes me happy.

The Australian flag has an interesting history also. I could go through all of the flags but the two prominent ones in my life are, of course, American and Australian. The Flag was established in 1901 when Australia became a federated nation under the 'supervision' of Great Britain. After Federation on 1 January 1901, the new Commonwealth Government held an official competition for a new federal flag in April. The competition attracted over 32,000 entries, including many originally sent to the Review of Reviews. The designs were judged on seven criteria: loyalty to the Empire, Federation, history, heraldry, distinctiveness, utility and cost of manufacture. The majority of designs incorporated the Union Flag and the Southern Cross, but native animals were also popular. Five almost identical entries were chosen as the winning design, and their designers shared the 200 pounds prize money. They were Ivor Evans, a fourteen-year-old schoolboy from Melbourne; Leslie John Hawkins, a teenager apprenticed to an optician from Sydney; Egbert John Nuttall, an architect from Melbourne; Annie Dorrington, an artist from Perth; and William Stevens, a ship's officer from Auckland, New Zealand. The five winners received 40 pounds each.

Incredible, isn't it, the creativity of youth?

The symbolism of the Australian flag: Union Jack - protectorate of England. Seven pointed stars - 6 states and one territory - federation, Southern Cross (five starred constellation seen from all states and territory). For many years, the Australian flag was backgrounded by two colors, either red or blue, until 1954, that is. In that year, the red background was dropped because red was the symbol of communism.

Amazing the how the history of the symbols informs us of what the personality of the country is. The history has shaped how the country views itself.

For me, symbols on flags are like scars on the body. Each scar is a significant moment in the history of a person. And, each scar influences how we respond to stimuli in our environment. Some people are full of scars and will often engage in a game of 'scar wars' with another person to see who has had the most physically traumatic experiences in life.

Some people would say that people with few scars are either a.) incredibly lucky or b.) incredibly dangerous. I would say that people with many scars fall somewhere in the middle of unfortunate and daring. I've got quite a few scars myself; multiple knee surgeries, a head surgery from birth. My brother and I, who are identical twins, have the same scar running down the middle of our heads (we were born without soft spots and needed to have strips of bone removed from each side of the middle of our heads so that we didn't end up looking like twin E.T's when we grew up). I used to tell young children that my brother and I were conjoined when born - right down the middle of the head. The doctor's separated us successfully but left each of us with half a brain. Only conceptually is that true.

Each scar has a story and a memory of trauma. I can remember the instant my knees decided they had had enough torque and blew out. I remember having warts on the tops of my hands and having them frozen during football season. They blistered so badly that I had to wear surgical gloves during football practice so that they wouldn't get infected. It worked until I caught my hand in the face mask of a rushing lineman effectively ripping the glove and all the skin of my knuckles off.

I could go on in detail describing all the scars of my past and perhaps grossing every reader out, but more importantly the scars that I want to talk about are unseen. Whether we like it or not, our hearts are scarred by what others do. As much as we like to say "Sticks and stones may break our bones but words will never hurt me" they do. They hurt bad. We carry the scars of off-hand remarks about our looks, about our personalities and about our ideas. We learn what topics we should stay away from like learning to keeping our hands away from a hot stove. It takes a long time for the scars to heal but one thing remains, the memory of the pain.

There may be moments in your life when you have scarred for life by the actions of another. But what softens our hearts is the universal solvent of faith: Forgiveness. Once we learn to forgive, we free ourselves from the pain of the past. It no longer is a festering wound by a symbolic reminder to be aware of how people can be cruel or mean. And, on the other hand, a symbolic reminder to treat others in the same way that our own soul longs for. When we forgive, the scars of emotional pain can be softened. Forgiveness is less for the other person and more for ourselves. If we don't forgive, we continue to wallow in a sense of resentment. We learn to hate ourselves as much as the other person effectively locking ourselves out of a place of love.

The scar remains - scarred for life; but new life can be born from the pain.

Ascribe

I like to write.

I should say, I like to type. No one really writes any more, except my grandmas. Regularly I still see the beautiful script of aged ladies, diligent words pressed respectfully with a pen to paper. Although, my Grandma Matthias has found the 21st century and is into e-mail and Facebook now. I can always tell it's her even without peeking who it's from because Grandma only types with the caps lock on. When I read her e-mails I have to put aside my thinking that capital letters means lots of emphasis should be put on the words. My grandma Matthias doesn't typically put a lot of stress on a phrase like this: THE SUN WAS SHINING TODAY AND GRANDPA CHOPPED SOME WOOD. HOPE YOU HAVE A GREAT DAY. GMA MATTHIAS

Really jumps out and catches the eye, doesn't it. But nobody really writes like that. No one, that I know, hand writes in capital letters. There's so much more subtlety to hand written words. And, people are much more likely to take seriously hand written words than typed words or spoken words.

A pastor friend of mine was telling me a story of how handwritten letters affected the life of one of his parishioners. The woman, who had made some considerably life altering changes, had received letter after letter from her family. My pastor friend, I'll call him Larry, was sitting with the woman one day when she broke down crying. The woman had read the letters daily which boldly proclaimed what a sinner she was, how disappointing she was to the family, she had no part in family dynamics. In effect, the letters were castigating her for choices made, but in essence were letters of fear that somehow they had failed her.

The woman, Anne (not her real name), lived with a constant source of guilt and dread that she was not human being anymore. Larry prayed with the woman and asked her to give him the letters for safe keeping. The words were stones. Like the woman caught in adultery, she was caught in the crossfire of a verbal stoning. Battered and bruised, physically she had escaped with her life, emotionally she was dead.

Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me. Yeah, whatever. Especially written words will kill. How many times do we see it in the paper that words have destroyed reputations, ruined relationships and brutalized life. The spoken word is air - breath released; it brings a memory but the written word is permanent and if written by hand, we know that the hand of a person actually pressed on the same page that we are holding. It's personal, very personal.

Many times, though, handwritten letters bring joy and contentment also. I love receiving handwritten Christmas cards. I got one this year - from my Grandma Nacke. I love reading the stories of the lives of people who I know and am endeared to, but often I will skip most of the information if there is a personal, handwritten script on the bottom. That usually means that they had a special message just for us. Yeah, they did a lot during the year - that's great - but LOOK AT THE HANDWRITING AT THE BOTTOM OF THE PAGE! THEY STILL REMEMBER US!

Remember not that long ago when almost all letters were still sent through the mail not filed electronically, typed, texted or Facebooked? Christine still keeps all the love letters that I wrote when she was in Australia and I lived by myself in Arizona. Every time she would receive a letter (so she tells me) she would read it three, four, fifty times not only to read it but to see my handwriting - because my handwriting is unique to me.

There are experts who can tell when signatures are forged or simply tell what people are like by their handwriting. (They soon might be out of jobs when everyone in the world forgets how to use a pen) They are called graphologers. For example, graphologers would suggest that these types of script say lots of things about us:

SIZE Small handwriting- research-oriented, good concentration, methodical, not always social Large handwriting- people oriented, outgoing, outspoken, love to entertain and interlock Right in the middle- you like to be with people, but value your own time

SPACING Good deal of space- you need your freedom, to do things in your own time, don’t like to be overwhelmed or crowed. Very little space- it shows a tremendous about of irritability and constant pressure on yourself

HOW LETTERS ARE SHAPED Rounded letters- indicates creativity, artistic abilities (writing, painting, acting, etc.) Pointed letters- shows you are more aggressive, intense, very intelligent, curious Connected letters- you are logical, systematic, make decisions carefully

LOOPING Loopy handwriting- very social individual, huge imagination, sensitive to criticism Not loopy- more isolated, reclusive, within themselves

DOTTING YOUR I’s Right over the I- attention to detail, organization, emphatic in what you say or do High over the I- shows great imagination To the left- procrastinator Circle your I’s- visionary, child like Slashing it- overly self-critical, don’t have a lot of patience for inadequacy or people that don’t learn from their mistakes, irritation

CROSSING YOUR T’s Right in the middle- you are personally safe Short crosses- shows a lack of determination Long crosses- great determination and enthusiasm, can be stubborn Very top of T- you’re an idealist, ambition, good self-esteem Cross downward at the top- you dominate your environment, authoritative nature O’s Open- you are talkative, social, able to express your feelings, have little secrecy Closed- you are very personal, limited sharing of your personal feelings, introvert

LEAD IN’S OR EXCESS FLOURISHES Lead in’s (or excess flourishes) - shows family orientation is important to you Lack of lead in’s (or excess flourishes)- you tackle problems in a direct, practical way, unhampered by sentimentality

MARGINS Writing all over the page- you can’t relax, constantly thinking Left hand margin- you live in the past Right hand margin- you are always looking towards the future

PRESSURE Tremendous pressure- very intense, may have some evil qualities, aggressive, blow up easily Average or light pressure- laid back, go with the flow

DOODLES Boxes- you need structure, stability and order Flowers- idealistic, romantic, creative Triangles- perfectionist, structured, people that feel stuck- don’t risk easily Circles- dreamer, creative, takes thinks personally, visionary Smiley faces- illusionary, wanting life to be beautiful, optimistic Color inside the box or shape- you are very intense, serious, worrier, can suggest sign of temper because of tension or frustration

PUNCTUATION MARKS Lots of exclamation marks- ego is involved, you want to be understood, passionate

SLANT If you write upward- you tend to be optimist, hopeful, honest, ambitious, motivated If you write downward- you tend to be negative, slightly depressed, dishonest

SPEED If you write things quickly- you are impatient, dislike delays or time wasters If you write slowly- more organized, more methodical, more self reliant

SIGNATURE (this is your public self image!) Legible- shows integrity, confidence, leadership, open to show your true self Not legible- very private person, hard to read or understand .

I didn't come up with these ideas - I found them by typing words onto the internet. But, the handwriting really does say something about the person. I will not tell you which of the styles is mine but needless to say I'm a bit loopy.

Larry and I met this week. We read from the book of Psalms as we always do and this week it was Psalm 29: Ascribe to the Lord, O heavenly beings, ascribe to the Lord glory and strength. Ascribe to the Lord the glory of His name; worship the Lord in holy splendor. Within the word 'ascribe' is of course the need to write. How often do we write down what is due to God? I don't do it very often, not in my own handwriting anyway. Often it is typed form that comes in the visage of a sermon. What would happen if every week we took time to hand write down all the goodness of God? Would our view of life in general change? Would the words that jump off the page remind us of the goodness of God? That God's own handwriting is nearby?

Paul writes in 2 Cor. 3 "Are we beginning to commend ourselves again? Surely we do not need, as some do, letters of recommendation to you or from you, do we? You yourselves shall be our letter, written on our hearts, to be known and read by all; and you show that you are a letter of Christ, prepared by us, written not with ink but with the Spirit of the living God, not on tablets of stone but on tablets of human hearts ---"

Our lives are living letters prepared by God written in the script of the Holy Spirit, legible to the whole world. God's handwriting does not need ink but is impressed on our very souls. What do you think God's handwriting looks like? Loopy? Extra spaces? Speedy? I would guess that God takes His time to prepare a love letter and writes it carefully and slowly on our hearts so that we can open it every day and remember that all of us are beloved children of God.

So, this week, try and write a few letters in your own hand. Ascribe to God the glory, ascribe to others all the love that God gives you, and ascribe to yourself that you are beloved of God and many.

My New Year's resolution is to try and keep typing this blog.

If only I could hand write it. Maybe more people would read it.

Peace,

Pastor Reid